The fallen feather,
from a mixture of glory and shame,
lands in the bottom of the human's nest.
Remains there for a second or two
then flatters across the other side.
Its greyish white feather splashed with
the dirts of the walking shoes.
A tint of the feather remains,
showing the purest grey and
covering the impurest white.
Now, this feather is no longer seen
nor reached
by the hands of those
who took it away.
Thus, it lives,
buried,
under the footsteps
and far away
from them.
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